


Your Driver has Dropped the Ride

by An_Ode



Series: The Mandalorian Taxi Service [5]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, Betaed, F/M, Forgive Me, Friends to Lovers, Introspection, It was a wreck, MY FIRST AND THE BEST BETA EVER, No Baby Yoda, Violence, darker themes, last one shot then full length story, people change, yall, yet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26398657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/An_Ode/pseuds/An_Ode
Summary: Somehow, through the cloud of indifference suffocating you, through the blatant logic of it all, it still slices through you like a blade. It doesn’t matter that it could have been someone else because it is him. He took the puck. He took the chance to be your executioner, and you don’t know if you’ve ever hated him this much.-OR-This was the one bounty you didn't place on yourself. You suppose it will be the last.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Original Female Character(s), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Series: The Mandalorian Taxi Service [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1711711
Comments: 25
Kudos: 183





	Your Driver has Dropped the Ride

**Author's Note:**

> Ya'll. Hard shout out to the fantastic human being that beta-ed this shit storm. Escher84, I am forever thankful.

The alcohol burns as it slides down your throat. That’s the issue with cheap, backwater taverns like these, you think. Or maybe that’s what’s right with them. Pain blooms deep in your chest, but the burn isn’t from the sludge you just knocked back. 

Life has a funny way of ending before you realize it has even begun. The fragility clung to your bones, a greedy feeling that made everything that came your way feel like the weight of an armada fleet. You can’t recall ever having felt like everything and nothing would break you in half. You don’t like it. 

The bartender was a blur. You wouldn’t be able to pick his puck out of a line up, that’s for sure. The details of how you made it this far, to this bar, to this _planet_ are fuzzy. That was something else the past six months had wrought. It was like your mind had given up on taking in any new information, so overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of emotional weight already stored up in every cell of your body. 

The worst might be that _he_ was vivid. That day, the blood splashing across cobblestone, across your shirt. The moments you pray would go blurry are instead marked in clear technicolor. Bright reds, startling greens, glaring golds. Hues had never been so vibrant. 

“You want to—”

“Fuck off,” your tone is flat. It might be the startling deadness of it that had him turn about-face like he’d seen Vader himself approach. 

“Not here to make friends, huh?”

“It applies to you as well,” you grit out, eyes staring sightlessly straight ahead. The bartender just chuckles, refills your drink, and ambles to the other side of the bar. Small mercies. 

You’re well and truly gone when a hush falls over the establishment. Somehow you know exactly what’s about to happen, know exactly who heralds that kind of greeting. There is something, small and infinitesimal, that tings in the pit of your stomach. Before it can take root, grow into any sort of true emotive response, it is sucked into the black hole that has opened up in your chest. 

The seat next to you creaks when he lowers onto it, hand hovering absentmindedly at his hip. You think of the quirked eyebrow, the twitching smile you would have shot him three years ago. A lot has changed since you’d last seen your sky taxi.

The last time you’d spoken face to helmet flashed through your mind. He’d called you on the gifted commlink, then flown to meet you on some backwater planet. 

-.-.-.-.-.

_You’re on the floor. Why are you on the kriffing floor? Groaning loudly, you lift your head to see the bed you’d been sleeping on right next to your face. Confusion and annoyance shoots through you. There is no way, as a fully formed, female adult that you fell out of bed._

_You fell out of bed._

_Words are hard, brain spaghetti from being awoken by the impact of the dirt floor on your already bruised body. Squeezing your eyes shut, you feel a pulsing headache coming on. The lack of light permeating the room tells you the suns had yet to rise._

_Beepbeep, beepbeep, beepbeep_

_You jump at the trilling sound of an incoming message via commlink. It gives you pause, the only commlink you carry is the one the Mandalorian gave you ages ago. He’s never sent a message, only received yours and showed up whenever he showed up._

_Panic floods your system, your limbs flailing to untangle yourself from the blankets twisted around you. Grunting in annoyance at how difficult it is while keeping an ear out as the beeping continues, you feel shaky. The sound is muffled, the thicker lining of the bag it resides in dampening the sound. You’re surprised it woke you at all._

_Finally, you escape the blanket prison. Practically lunging across the room, you fumble for the small light next to the bed. Clicking it on nearly blinds you, the hiss involuntary. Snatching up the bag tucked neatly between the bed frame and nightstand, you dig around in it, pushing aside the muted green tunic you’d bought just two weeks ago and the notebook you so cherish. When fingers brush against cool metal, you grasp it and yank the thing from the depths of canvas._

_“Hello?” you practically shout down the commlink. “What’s wrong, are you dead?” You may not be entirely conscious._

_“If I were dead, how could I be calling you?” Huffs a modulated voice and something in your gut unclenches._

_“Why are you calling me at all?”_

_“I…” you sit up slowly, back pressing against the edge of your rented bed. Him calling was one thing, him hesitating was another._

_“You’re triggering my paranoia, Mandalorian.”_

_“Where are you?”_

_“Gestrian, small Outer Rim planet. Why?”_

_“We need to talk.” You look down at the commlink, brows raised._

_“You breaking up with me?”_

_“I’ll be there in an hour.” The sound to indicate the signal has been dropped echoes in the room._

_The ground is comfortable enough, not that you’re really focused on your ass and the floor at the moment. Staring at the wall straight ahead, you search through your tired brain to try and identify the weird feeling bubbling and pressing against your sternum._

_It was a blessing and a curse, your inability to truly_ feel _in real time._ _Even as a kid, you never seemed to respond the way people should to things that happened to and around you. When your brother was gravely injured, and your family mourned and cried, you sat resolutely and silently by his bedside. Eyes dry, heart steady, you felt nothing. It wasn’t until his eventual recovery four days later that it all hit. Your mother found you sobbing in the woods by your home, barely able to breathe. You were nine years old at the time._

_It took you time to process emotions, even longer to feel them._

_So, it had taken a few days to really process what you felt when the Mandalorian leaned into you instead of away. The feeling of his hand burning smooth circles into your skin didn’t really hit until over a week later. When was the last time you had an encounter like that? It spurred something inside you that made your skin feel too tight, like a wool tunic shrunk in the wash._

_It had only been two weeks since that day, and you were still dissecting it._

_Turning to look at the bedside table’s little analog clock, you note it’ll be light in twenty minutes or so. This planet’s cycle was only 12 hours; the rapid change from light to dark and back again was a menace. He said he’d be planet side in an hour, which gave you forty minutes to get some semblance of your shit together._

_Despite taking a lifetime to heat, you decided to bathe. It had been a few days. By the time you finish scrubbing grime-caked skin, the sun is up. A peek out the window shows the townspeople stirring, stalls and shops coming to life. The muted green tunic you’ve come to love slides over slightly damp skin._

_Your mind whirls while you dress, circling back around to the few moments on his ship two weeks back. It’s where your mind had circled back to a lot in the past fortnight._

_He had been surprisingly… affectionate. It wasn’t until a few days later, laying down in bed, eyes slipping closed that you realized a kriffing Mandalorian hugged you. You’d shot back up in bed like you’d been bitten. So you were a little slow on the uptake. It wasn’t that you were unaware of the facts at face value, but the emotional response to it, the realized implications, all of that came later._

_The touch of his gloved hand hadn’t meant much in the moment, aside from shocked surprise and mild attraction. But now, in retrospect as you dragged out those few moments of memory, stretching them taut so they moved in slow motion, his touch burned. When was the last time you’d felt that intimately enclosed by another person?_

_The poor man had been delirious, suffering from blood loss and shell shock. The qualifier kept you on the precipice of an emotional spiral. Besides, if you had nothing else to cling to, the headbutt helped. Chalking that up to engrained fighting instinct, he’d said himself that his fine motor skills were impacted, the whole thing was flushed down the pipes of your distinctly emotional and feminine mind._

_But sometimes… well, sometimes it stayed in the forefront, twisting and twirling, floating through the corners of your mind in technicolor. There had been a moment, when his hand tightened around you, chest to chest plate, that you found a long-forgotten instinct roar to life. It was as frustrating as it was fascinating. You didn’t really do that kind of thing, and to have it nudged awake by a man whose face you had never and would never see—well, that was just weird._

_By the time the commlink beeped again, you were dressed and packed, but not nearly as ready to see him as you hoped you would be. Gathering your courage and a metric ton of false confidence, you walk out into the fully lit streets and head towards the small docking bay a few blocks over. The nondescript fades from your mind as the peak of the Razor Crest comes into view._

_You approach slowly, the inane instinct to bite your lip and tuck into yourself rearing in an instant. You’d been nervous countless times in your life; you still fight the nerves every time you land on a new planet, find a new person, haggle with cargo ships. But this, this was purely personal and utterly unknown._

_The ship settles, the creaks and groans of the ancient model making a smile quirk on your lips. It was a familiar sound to you, one that made something warm course through your body. With a hiss, the side door begins to lower, revealing stairs you’d forgotten existed. At a measured, sure pace, bit by bit, he becomes visible._

_The rising suns glint off his armor where scuff had yet to dull its shine. Your stomach clenches as he comes completely into view, but you ensure your face does not reflect what turmoil you’re currently in. It would do no one any good to go all soft on the poor man now._

_He reaches the bottom of the stairs, the small thud and cloud of dust as his feet hit the dirt makes you smile. His presence engulfs you, the air of confidence he gives off irrefutable. Though you are similar in height, the man always seems to tower over you and everyone else._

_“Funny seeing you here,” you say, slipping your bag off tight shoulders and letting it land with a dull thump, another cloud of dust kicked up into the air._

_“We need to talk.”_

_“Ominous.”_

_Standing there in the early morning—how did anyone describe this place time wise, anyway?—you see his hands clench and unclench and clench again. He makes a move towards you but stops, settling near the stairs. The silence stretches on, so with a sweeping hand gesture, you prompt him to speak._

_“I need the commlink back,” he finally blurts out and your brows raise both at the sentence and its unusual delivery. You make no move for your bag to retrieve it though, eyes locked on the twitching Mandalorian._

_“Alright… Care to explain?”_

_“I’ve got a job,” he responds. Your brows raise again. “Don’t know how long it will take.”_

_“If that’s all then I can just—”_

_“It’s a crew.” You’re stunned momentarily, and then, he goes on._

_By the time he’s gotten through his explanation, details vague and disjointed, only a few minutes have passed. The warmth he had brought is slowly fading, ice running through your veins in its stead. He hasn’t said it directly, but you know where it’s all going._

_You keep yourself still while he speaks but once the silence settles, you turn to face the side of the hull, eyes narrowing as you process. Crossing your arms across your chest, you pivot and lean back against the slowly warming metal of his ship. With a quick look up, you pin him with a questioning stare._

_“I never imagined you taking orders from someone else.”_

_“We’re equal partners,” he gripes back before reeling himself back in._

_“They don’t sound like…” you trail off before the sentiment finishes. You’re entirely aware that any comment about his life, or those he chooses to associate with, would be ill received._

_“Don’t sound like what?” He’s edgy today, voice sterner than his usual drawl. Once, when he picked you up on some marshland planet, whose name you may have forgotten, he had been this way. To this day, you have no idea if it was caused by you or some other isolated incident. Either way, it makes you extremely cautious about how you take this conversation forward._

_“Nothing, it’s not my place to—”_

_“That’s never stopped you before.” There is a harshness to his response that makes you bristle, and you straighten up, arms dropping to your side._

_“No but see: I’m learning!” You inject as much false cheer into that statement as you possibly can._

_“Spit it out!” You reel back with wide eyes this time. You’d never heard him yell outside of battle scenarios where it was required. You’ve never seen him so riled._

_“They don’t sound like your kind of people.” Roles reverse, and you’re the one twitching._

_“And what are my kind of people?”_

_“Honorable” you respond without hesitation. “Crews like that… they have a reputation of calculated cruelty. They have no honor, and they’ll just as soon shoot you as pay you.”_

_“And what makes you think I’m any different?”_

_You scoff at his statement, eyes hard and calculating as you look him over. Finally, you find the motivation to cross the divide. Stopping less than a foot from him, there is a fire in your chest now, a righteous anger at his intentional blindness._

_“Don’t make me laugh, Mandalorian,” you bite out. “I’ve read of your people, of who they were and what was taught.” You squint up and inject as much conviction as possible into your next words. “Don’t forget, I’ve seen you; I know you. You are an honorable man; it’s the reason I chose you in the first place.”_

_“You don’t know me.”_

_“Of course I don’t. I’m just some naïve girl from the Inner Rim: sheltered, with no life experience.” You roll your eyes. “Get your head out of your ass, Mandalorian.”_

_“You think you're clever, but you’re just a kid playing at adulthood.” He suddenly invades your space, the stagnant mask somehow becoming a glare as it stops inches from you. “Couldn’t even haggle for a ride.”_

_“Right, because everyone comes out of the womb with all the knowledge in the universe.” Your eyes narrow. “That’s what growth is; that’s what life is. Don’t feign being omniscient when you’re just a self-fulfilling prophecy!”_

_“You know nothing.” He takes a step back, body falling into a stance that screams indifference. Then, he delivers the final blow. “You are nothing. I’m tired of having to play savior to an incompetent child.”_

_You’d realize later it was a ploy. He pulled it off well: the break would be clean, and you’d leave him to do as he wished—no matter how stupid it was. But in that moment, logic and cunning abandoned you, and there was nothing but the sharp sting of his words._

_“Well,” you feel your body locking into place, the ice in your veins thickening in defense of the vicious attack, “you are certainly working your way down to their level, aren’t you?” The flat tone of your voice reveals nothing._

_It was moments like this that the emotional disconnect was useful. You had no need to hide your emotions because there were no emotions to hide. Despite the numbness thrumming through your body, the urge to put as much distance between yourself and him was overwhelming. Turning your back on him, you snatch up the bag you’d dropped. Less than ten seconds and you had his commlink in hand._

_For a moment, you stare at it, and something is niggling at the back of your mind. You quiet the small voice with a harsh bite. For once in your life, you forsake your grueling training, shutting out the Sage inside of you and simply feel. Then, it’s gone, a wasteland and you’ve righted yourself._

_In a move much pettier than you are proud of, you drop his commlink in the dirt. Your eyes follow its decent, zeroing in on the little thing as it falls. Soundlessly, it hits the ground, metal glinting like treasure in dull, red dust. Inhaling deeply, you steel your nerves and focus on putting one foot in front of the other. You’ve made it three steps when he speaks._

_“Nothing to say? That must be a first.” You jerk to a stop and make a split-second decision. You turn nothing but your head. His form is nothing but a vague shape in your peripheral vision._

_“The day you wake up and find you can’t stand your own reflection, remember there is no one to blame but yourself and your own stupidity.” And with that parting shot, you move forward, the Razor Crest and its pilot shrinking with every step. You don’t look back._

You remember that last meeting vividly, his internal struggle displayed in stark relief. You’d seen enough to know he was on the precipice of change, and as you walked away, thoughts of what he would become on completion of his metamorphosis had flooded your mind. 

Now you know. 

Here he sits, body unmoving but for the cape flowing like water as stale air from the tavern drags through the room. The black material gives the illusion of casual movement, the only thing that ever did. But he is a predator, still as death before the strike. He’s still now. 

You hadn’t given the occupation of bounty hunting much thought before the Mandalorian. It was common enough, you suppose, but that didn’t mean you ran in the same circles. Traipsing across the galaxy, never settling in one place, looking for and finding people, it was similar to what you did. Except your visits didn’t end in blood and carbonite. Usually. 

The practical side of you understood the need for it. People needed consequences, deterrents. If they didn’t operate in the galaxy, spice traders, murderers, tyrants, they would all skip planet and get away with the shit they’d done. That wasn’t acceptable. 

But another side, the one that contemplated outside of necessity, wondered what type of person such a profession attracted. Or worse, what type of person it created.

 _And what have you become? What has being a Sage created?_ That voice, a mix between your own and your mentor’s, sneers at you. A constant companion during the past six months, you’d learned how to shove it back into a lock box, at least for a short stint. 

“Long time no see, Mando.” He doesn’t respond. You don’t expect him to. A part of you is suspicious he is a hallucination brought on by the sheer amount of alcohol you’ve consumed in the past three… four, hours? 

Spinning in your seat to look him over, that sheer amount hits you all at once. Without warning you pitch to the left harshly, nearly toppling off face first onto the hardwood floor. Rough hands catch your upper arms, their hold bruising as they manhandle you back into the seat facing your death. 

Squinting up at him, everything swims in your brain, but there is just… something about him. Something that’s different. You can’t put your finger on it, but for someone who has spent most of your life sussing people out, you’ve stopped questioning how you know things and simply accepted that you do. 

“You here for her I take it,” the man who had willingly plied you with cheap drinks all night swan in front of your eyes. He was leaning back subconsciously, the mask of calm cracked around the edges. If you can sense it drunk, the Mandalorian will see it clear as the Death Star. 

“Bounty,” his voice is the same, but unrecognizable. The modulator distorts his natural tone, it always has, but there is something deeper in it this time around, and it makes you wary. An animal instinct rears up, that trill of panic when caught in the snare of a predator. 

“Same old, same old,” you move to wave your hand about but find your fine motor skills impaired. His voice flashes through your mind, reminding you of a conversation very much different than the one you’re about to have. 

“I’ll take it from here,” he informs the bartender. 

“You know, I think I remember how long it’s been,” it’s your voice you hear, belatedly realizing it’s you who's’ talking. “Haven’t seen you in what… three years?”

You study him as pointedly as you can through the alcohol-fueled haze. He looks markedly the same. His armor might have changed around a bit; your memory of him all those years ago has worn around the edges. Details have been lost to the passage of time and new memories, but it’s his… well his _energy_ you can feel that’s changed. Something in him has shifted drastically, a chrysalis whose final evolution birthed an echoing darkness. An ugly, snarling thing deep in his soul that was conspicuously absent during your taxi days.

“It’s time to go.” The monotone used to entertain you; now, it simply makes annoyance race up your spine. 

“I haven’t finished my drink.”

“You’ve finished enough.” 

You sit there, body leaning heavily against the bar edge digging harshly into your ribs. The sharp pain is a welcome sensation, clearing your head for just a moment. Pressure blooms behind your nose, burrowing into the corners of your eyes. Remembrance lights your whole body on fire. 

“Ah,” you break your stare and tuck your head. Fingers drag mildly across the countertop as you contemplate. Your fate had been decided long before you sat on this barstool. You never meant to try and outrun it, not really. If Lucius hadn’t smuggled you off-world in the middle of the night, if it hadn’t been his life on the line also, you would have stayed and faced the damage you’d caused. Looking back up, you wonder what was on the puck, what he knows.

Your final hours being spent with a lost friend should have been a comfort. Would have been, had you not clocked the differences in his person the moment he stepped through the cantina doors. Three years had changed more than either of you could possibly explain.

“And if I refuse?” You have no intention of refusal, but you have to know where you stand. He barely hesitates before shifting back and hovering one hand over the holster on his hip.

“I can bring you in warm,” a mirthless smile drags across your face, “or I can bring you in cold.” 

The cantina holds its breath, a collective anticipation of what a Mandalorian will do to his latest quarry. 

_All music must come to an end, someday, somehow, the song will end._ Her voice echoes in your head, but any sort of comfort it once brought you has been burned away. Manipulation, especially at its finest, leaves nothing but a foul taste in your mouth. 

“Barkeep,” you burst out suddenly, whipping your head around with energy you don’t really have. Flinging some credits on his tabletop, you bring it all to its inevitable conclusion. “I think my taxi is here.”

The song is fading, keys strikes echoing, strings humming out quietly. You think you’re ready to die. Should’ve been dead a hundred times over really. Borrowed time always ran out, that you learned on your own. 

He silently leads you out the door into the dusking air. You squint at the change in lighting. The suns are setting, streaks of purple and orange painted across the sky, and you think it’s fitting in every way there is. You keep an eye on it even as his presence hovers next to you, leading you across the dusty landscape to a very familiar metallic structure.

His ship is the same, down to the hanging carbonite bounties. Instinct prompts you to comment on it, but it suffocates under the weight of three years and too many mistakes. In a different time, a different space, you would tease him mercilessly for his consistency. You’d head confidently up the ramp and straight to his ladder, settle into the only other chair and swivel and slide, one question flying out after the other. And he, well, he’d deadpan his humor right back at you. Slick and sharp, just like him, it would take you by surprise like it always did. 

You pause when the hanging carbonite is at your right shoulder, eyes boring a hole in the side of his ship. A hiss rings out as the ramp closes, the hum of an airtight lock, and you wince. He approaches at a steady stride, and then he’s there, right at your back, and you wonder what a twisted place the galaxy must be. You can’t quite ask the question, so you slowly move your head and eye your fate with mounting trepidation. 

You flinch when he rounds on you, coming to stand an arm’s length away. Eyes still locked on the carbonite, it’s through peripheral vision you watch as he lifts wrists cuffs your way. When he speaks, there is no discernible difference in his tone. 

“Your choice.” 

In some sort of warped mirror of events, you find yourself climbing the ladder with him right behind you. It’s slower in this version, cuffed hands impeding your progress. By the time you’ve settled yourself into the bucket seat, a sort of stillness envelopes you. There is very little left up to you, but knowing that if you don’t speak, neither will he is a kindness. 

By the time he sets the coordinates and has you leaving atmosphere, you’re almost completely absent from the cockpit. Memories of your life fly by in quick succession, but nothing is able to remove the blanketed numbness that is swallowing you whole. You’re not sure how much time has passed when his voice pulls you from the barrage of images that comprised your existence.

“The puck,” he begins, “it says you're wanted on Camaloon for high treason.” 

“There a question in there, Mandalorian?” Your voice comes out almost as deadpan as his. 

“Why?”

“Because I committed high treason.” 

You lift your head when his chair turns marginally in your direction. It strikes you suddenly that he won’t look directly at you either. It sends an uncharacteristic streak of malice through you. 

“Ask what you want to ask or keep from disrupting the silence, bounty hunter.” It’s dark, angry, but all you want is to be left in peace.

“Punishment for such a crime?” he leapfrogs over everything else to land on what you are purposefully avoiding. 

“Death.” Finally saying it out loud doesn’t make it more real, as you’d imagined it would, it has been real for far too long now. “Doubtlessly long and drawn out, it’s all very personal,” you drawl, head lolling to one shoulder as you watch the side of his helmet in your eyeline. He gives no indication of how this information has impacted him, and you find yourself unsurprised. 

“Why?” It’s a loaded question, and you huff out a breath as you dissect it. Why the _fuck_ are you on trial for treason? _Why_? 

You could feed him every line you’d fed yourself for weeks. Because you were orphaned as a child? Because you were betrayed by someone your family trusted? Because you were sold like a piece of property to a collective? Because you were forced into some pseudo-profession you had no choice in? Because you did what you were trained to do? Because you disregarded your training for the first time in your life and screwed yourself and everyone else? 

In the end, you decide to go with fact, with honesty without context. 

“Because I murdered their beloved king in front of the entirety of his gathered people.” 

He doesn’t ask for more, and you offer nothing else up. It is what it is, your life is ending whether he drops you off on the planet or not. If it hadn’t been him it would have been someone else.

Somehow, through the cloud of indifference suffocating you, through the blatant logic of it all, it still slices through you like a blade. It doesn’t matter that it could have been someone else because it _is_ him. He took the puck. He took the chance to be your executioner, and you don’t know if you’ve ever hated him this much. 

When the ship breaks through atmosphere less than a day later, you remember how little distance you actually put between yourself and the world you’d called home for nearly two years. Clouds slip past the front shield and you see it, the landscape unchanged in the short time you’ve been gone. The structures are the same, the trees and rivers and mountains and valleys. You don’t know what you expected. Just because you had changed, been ripped apart at the seams, doesn’t mean the world would change with you, doesn’t mean it _should_. 

He lands, and it’s over. 

You’re down the ladder before he can say another word, and you feel fear for the first time in months. It skitters up your spine and wraps around your chest with a harsh squeeze until every last bit of air in your lungs is gone. The ramp remains closed only a second more before the hermetic seal breaks and the ramp begins to lower. His sudden appearance at your side almost breaks you before you remember there is nothing left of you to break. 

For the first time since his sudden reappearance, you feel him hesitate. His hand hovers over your arm, and you know this will be your last chance. Looking up at him fully, your focus shifts, and you say what you want to say—had wanted to say since the cantina stilled at his presence. 

“You feel different,” you finally get out, tripping over your declaration only slightly. You couldn’t put it into words, you never could for the important things.

“What does that mean?” 

“You feel darker, angrier…” brow furrowing, you search through the words rattling around in your head until you find the one you’re looking for. “Dangerous. You feel dangerous.”

“I’ve always been dangerous.” 

“Not to me; not to good people.”

“Says the murderer,” he bites out the response, and you recoil on instinct. His hand finally comes down, gripping your upper arm hard enough to bruise. Your eyes snap forward just as the ramp settles onto stone pavers. 

He walks you down, vibrating with a violence you’d never known in him but had felt in many others. As if to provide a comparison for that thought, Callum comes into view. There was little doubt in your mind that he would come out of the woodwork for this, but to actually see him sends an involuntary shudder through your body. 

It does not go unnoticed by your pursuer. He pulls you closer to him, ensuring you don’t make a run for it. You’re tempted, to try and make him look bad, but it’s a fleeting thought, evaporating in the light of the gathered welcome party. 

“Your reputation is earned, Mandalorian.” His voice has that haughty quality to it that makes you want to cut him off at the knees, to remind him how very common he truly is. 

You don’t recognize the two men that step forward to retrieve you. Relief and fear streak through you at the same time. Strangers meant indifference, but at least it spared those who knew you. It was one thing to torture and execute a stranger; it was another to do so to a friend, tentative as that word may now be. 

“I’ll need to see the payment first.” His modulated voice barely stops the approaching guards, but Callum calls them to a halt. They pause, eyeing the Mandalorian with well-deserved suspicion.

“Of course, we’re all the friends here.” With a gesture of the hand, a young boy, no older than fourteen approaches.

You feel the chokehold on your lungs triple as his face becomes clear. There is a cruelty to everything Callum does, but sending in Blu to pay for your bounty hits in a different way. He can’t look you in the eye; you can’t speak past the lump in your throat. When he’s no more than an arm’s length away, you feel your fingers twitch. 

If the Mandalorian notes the pain radiating from Blu and yourself, he doesn’t show it. With a simple movement he accepts the credits wrapped in leather straps, examining it for a moment before a nod of his head ends the transaction and the moment. Blu scurries back, hiding behind the hoard of armed men he’d appeared from. 

“Splendid, now on to your end of the bargain.” It’s only as he speaks in such a sanguine tone that the crown he wears finally registers. Your focus zeros in on the simple steel headpiece, memories of its inception and creation blinding and painful. Eyes fly to the crowd, but you do not see her anywhere. It had been clear that she was to take control in the aftermath of the king’s death.

“Mandalorian, the transaction is complete. Release to me the bounty.” There is a hard edge to his voice when you resurface, and you wonder how long the Mandalorian has been standing there, his grip unrelenting. 

You turn, eyes on the blank mask of dulled metal. Something about the way he holds himself, the way he tilts his head forward, it screams hesitance. You have no idea why. 

When the two guards begin taking their final strides, you watch in slow motion as his posture eases minutely. You feel his grip convulse sharply before he lets go completely. You mourn as he takes a step back, and you yelp when the larger of the two strikes you hard across the face. 

“Thank you for your service. I certainly know who to call when I am in need of a bounty hunter.” 

The world is swimming. The residual alcohol, the rioting emotions, the intoxication of fear, it has you struggling in the surf. Wave after wave seems to knock you back underwater. You gasp for understanding, to try and right yourself, but the black spots dancing around the corners of your vision promise darkness, and you want to give in. 

You don’t hear it, the screaming. Blu’s voice is rough and ragged, begging the guards to stop. You don’t even register the blows hitting your body. The last thing that registers in your mind is the sound you were once familiar with, one that always brought a twinge of sadness. This time though, the roar of the Razor Crest taking off and leaving you behind is deafening.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so that is not a happy moment, but I promise it is not the end! I am now moving from one-shots to a full length series, so brace yourselves. 
> 
> Also, I have never really given much commentary on here about myself but I wanted to try: it's been a fucking wild two months, and this story is helping me out of a pretty tight spot emotionally. Within two months I have: moved countries (again), left my job (soooo toxic), lost my only remaining grandparent, buried said grandparent, and am now job hunting and couch surfing in a state where I know exactly 2 people. It's been a ride. 
> 
> Reviews make my heart happy and my fingers type-y!


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